


Amidst the Mists and Coldest Frosts

by namesfey



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Andersen has plot holes and so do i, Georgie Denbrough Lives, M/M, Snow Queen Elements, Teenage Losers Club (IT), this is my au i make the rules
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namesfey/pseuds/namesfey
Summary: When Georgie Denbrough leaves the house one winter day and never returns, Bill sets out on a journey to find his brother and bring him home.Or, the Snow Queen AU nobody asked for
Relationships: Bill Denbrough & Georgie Denbrough, Bill Denbrough & The Losers Club, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Which Treats of the Balloon and the Tattered Pieces

This tale begins with the Eater of Worlds, as he was called by others – or Pennywise, as he was called by himself. He altered his form from day to day, depending on what he pleased. Sometimes he was a spider, other times a snow queen, other times still a bird with a wingspan unimaginable to the common man. But more often than not, Pennywise appeared as a circus clown: red tufts of hair at his head, a silvery suit with orange puffs like buttons, twin blood-colored lines running down his otherwise pale-painted face.

One day Pennywise was in good humor, for he fashioned for himself a giant red balloon which could grow to enormous size. If one so much as looked into the balloon’s scarlet reflection, their world would become distorted and flawed: the good would shrivel away, and their fears would manifest into reality.

The clown held a gathering to show off his latest creation in his castle deep in the ground. The castle was a dark, cavernous thing with high ceilings and echoing chambers and staircases trailing off to exits that ascended to the world of man. Many a magical creature congregated in Pennywise’s central chamber, eager to see what they saw in their reflection. Shrieks and cries were common sounds as the great balloon was passed around. The onlookers couldn’t help but cackle at the misfortune of their peers, delighting in the terrified expressions that would dawn on someone as they looked into the depths of the balloon.

Once everyone had beheld the devilry of Pennywise’s newest toy, they could not help but ask to take the balloon above ground, to fly with it and see what the world would become in its reflection. Pennywise permitted, for who was he to pass up an opportunity to bestow chaos upon humanity?

The creatures voted on who would have the honor of flying with the balloon, and once that was decided, they climbed up a staircase and watched as the balloon began to rise above them, the designated creatures howling with laughter and mischief. The balloon soared above the other creatures, above the homes the men of the world had built, above the tops of the trees and above the tips of the mountains. The designated creatures stared into the balloon, captivated by the warping of the earth below.

Higher and higher they rose, until the balloon trembled and burst, sending a shock through the atmosphere, the creatures falling, falling, falling -

into the waiting, open mouth of the clown below. Not a thought had passed in the creatures’ minds that the Eater of Worlds would cause _them_ harm. Why would they, when they had been treated as equals, welcomed into his home, shown his masterpiece? But Pennywise, almost as old as Earth itself, fed on the fear and chaos of the creatures - and what better way of creating that than by betrayal? So as the designated creatures rose with the red balloon high into the sky, the old clown gobbled up the other creatures, filling his stomach full of tender meat and terror, and waited for the rising creatures to do the rest of his work for him. And when the clown had finished eating the fallen creatures, he stepped back into his domain below.

As he descended his stairs, hundreds of millions and billions of tattered pieces of the red balloon floated to the ground. Some pieces were hardly the size of a grain of sand; these flew about all over the world, and when they landed in people’s eyes they stuck there and made everything appear to them as twisted, or made their greatest fears prominent in their lives, for every piece had retained the same power as the whole balloon.

Some pieces were remade into pencil erasers. Others were made into rain boots and raincoats. Years and years later, some pieces helped to fashion tires. It wasn’t often that people could see their reflection anymore, but when they did, their peripheral giving them away, their world would never be the same.

Pennywise laughed until his sides ached. He sat in his cavern deep in the ground, under a town that steadily grew and grew, a town come to be known as Derry, waiting and watching the chaos unfold. Because some people even got a small piece into their hearts, and this was the most terrible of all, for the rubber inside became itself a small balloon, pushing out the capability of love. These people were found by the clown Pennywise and taken away, never to be seen again.

And to this day pieces of the balloon fall to the ground, tormenting innocent people as they go about their lives. So shield your eyes when you step in the sun - the balloon may choose you to be the next one!


	2. The Little Boy and His Brother

Not too long ago, in the middle of the town called Derry, there were two brothers. They lived in a simple two-story house on a street called Witcham, and though they had plenty of neighbors, no one ever talked to one another. Rather, each house kept to themselves, tended their own gardens, only mingled with the other inhabitants.

The younger brother was named George Denbrough, more commonly known as Georgie, and he was a curious little devil. He would often ask questions about the world that his mother and father were too bothered to answer, so he took his wonderings to his older brother, Bill.

William “Bill” Denbrough, the eldest, always answered his brother’s questions - whether drawing from truth or from whatever his mind could conjure - despite his own persisting stutter. It was their little game, something to pass the time when the two had run out of other ways to occupy themselves.

During the warmer months, Bill and Georgie could be seen running around their front lawn, pretending to be sailors and pirates, cops and robbers, knights and wizards. They would climb up their great pine tree and stare at the sky through the leaves, taking in the scent of the tree and the heavy air.

However, in the wintertime, the play had to be taken inside. The windows of the Denbrough home would often freeze over, but the brothers, too, would make a game out of this, heating copper pennies and placing the warm coins against the frozen panes, making peepholes to stare out into the whitened world, two in Bill’s room and two in Georgie’s. Other times, Georgie would tell Bill to draw an animal, and Bill would try his best to replicate Georgie’s wishes into the frost.

One winter, when the younger Denbrough was newly ten and the older Denbrough was nearly sixteen, Georgie asked one of his curious questions: “What exactly _are_ the white specks falling outside?”

And Bill, never one to disappoint the big, brown eyes of his brother, replied, “They’re buh-be-bees - swarming white bees.”

“Where’s the queen bee?” Georgie prompted.

Bill smiled, the cogs turning in his head. “She’s yuh-usually where the s-swuh-swarm is thickest, and shhhhh _e_ -she’s the largest of them all. But she n-n-never settles on the ground - instead, she fly-flies back up to the black c-clouds, waiting for another heavy fall. Most nights she flies through the struh-streets of Derry, looking through the w-windows at the children fast asleep. If the children are g-good, she leaves outlines of fuh-flowers in the fer-frost that collect on-on the window panes.”

Georgie’s eyes brightened. “I’ve seen that!” he said, and Bill’s heart warmed. All he wanted was to make his brother happy.

That evening, as the boys’ mother put Georgie to bed, the little one asked her if the Snow Queen could get inside the house. But Sharon Denbrough hadn’t the slightest idea what her son was talking about.

“Billy told me about the Snow Queen today,” Georgie tried to explain. “About how she flies around at night, peeking into windows.” But his mother still couldn’t comprehend - or maybe she refused - so she called for her oldest son and left the room.

Bill sat on the edge of the bed, blue eyes full of concern. “W-What’s wrong, Georgie?”

Georgie pulled his sheets over his own head. “You’re gonna think I’m a baby.”

“Y-You’re probably ri-right.”

Georgie pulled the sheet from his face, his mouth in an offended “O”. Bill pressed his lips in a thin line, attempting to restrain a smile. “I’m not a baby!” Georgie said. “I’m brave!”

“Then tell me wuh-what’s wrong,” Bill said. He poked his brother in the side, causing them both to erupt in a fit of giggles. “Tell me,” _poke_ “tell me,” _poke_ “tell me -”

“Okay!” Georgie said, relenting. He pushed Bill’s hand away. “It’s...about the Snow Queen.”

“What about her?”

Georgie’s eyes danced around the room, unable to meet his brother’s. “I’m just worried that she’s gonna come in...um, that she’s gonna come by the house and think I’m a bad kid, and instead of leaving flowers in the frost she’s gonna come through the window and…and get me.”

“Oh…” Bill said. “Well...shuh-she’s never done that before, so I wuh-wuh-wouldn’t think she’d d-do that now.” Georgie nodded, his shoulders relaxing somewhat. “But do y-you want me to stay in hhhhhh _ere_ with you? Just in case?”

Georgie weighed the proposition, then shook his head. “No. But thanks, Bill. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” said Bill, rising. “Goodnight, Jor-Georgie.”

“Goodnight, Billy.”

Georgie watched his big brother close the bedroom door. As soon as he heard the _click_ of finality, he rushed to his window, checking, double-checking, triple-checking the window was locked and secured. Then, as a final precaution, Georgie peered through the holes in the frost made by the pennies.

At first, all Georgie Denbrough saw was the snowfall. Then, while watching the snowflakes descend, he noticed that one - the largest of all by a significant amount - settled on a branch of the pine tree in the front yard, directly in front of his window. The snowflake grew larger and larger till, at last, it became a full-grown woman, dressed in the most delicate white gauze. The gauze appeared as if it was made of millions of star-like flakes, and while she looked beautiful and graceful, Georgie could see she was made entirely of dazzling, glittering ice. Still, the woman seemed alive, her blue, crystalline eyes sparkling like two bright stars. She beckoned him with her hand, her eyes changing to a glowing gold color. Georgie suddenly became terribly frightened, and stepped away from his peepholes. A great shadow passed over his frost-covered windows, as if an enormous bird outside flew past.

Georgie ran to his bed and closed his eyes. He tried his best to avoid dreaming of the Snow Queen, or giant birds, or icy-white bees.

The next day the snow had ceased its falling, leaving the air clear and sharp. Still, the boys’ mother and father bid them to stay inside the house. The boys groaned, begged their father, Zack, to let them play outside in the snow, but he declined. Instead, he grabbed a book from the shelf, opened to a page at random, sat it on Georgie’s lap, and told them to read to each other. Then he disappeared into another room.

Georgie looked at the book. He looked at the pages. He looked up at Bill. “I don’t wanna read stupid poems,” he said. “I wanna play outside.”

“It’s n-not so ba-bad,” Bill said, avoiding the puppy dog expression Georgie was giving him. Though he agreed with his brother, Bill knew better than to disobey his parents - one too many whuppins taught him that. He placed the book in his own lap. “At luh-least insi-inside we’re warm. He-here, I’ll go fuh-first:

“‘Amidst the m-muh-mists and col-coldest frosts,  
with stuh-stoutest wrists and lou-loudest b-buh-buh-bo-bo-bo-’”

Bill groaned in frustration, throwing his head into his hands.

“Bill - it’s okay!” Georgie whisper-shouted. “Look, I’ll read it. I don’t mind!” Georgie cleared his throat and, making a rather big show of moving the book back into his lap, began to recite. 

“‘Amidst the mists and coldest frosts,  
with stoutest wrists and loudest boasts,  
he thrusts his fists against the posts  
and still insists he sees the ghosts.’”

Bill managed a small smile and patted Georgie gently on the shoulder. “Nuh-Ni-Nice job, buh-buddy. Wuh-way better than my shit muh-muh-mouth.”

“Don’t swear - Dad’ll hear you!”

Bill gave a long exhale out his nose and shrugged his shoulders. “Ghosts,” he mumbled to himself. He turned to Georgie. Slowly but surely, a smile spread across Bill’s face, mischief brewing along with it. Fuck the whuppins. “Hey, do you wuh-wanna build a s-suh-snowman?”

Witcham Street was silent.

That is, Witcham Street was silent until the Denbrough brothers ran out the front door. The snow _crunch crunch crunch_ ed under their footsteps, their huffing and puffing like white thunder striking through the winter day.

The two did indeed build a snowman. In fact, they built four - then had a snowball fight, then made snow angels, then took the trash can lid from their garage and slid up and down their street, whooping and hollering all the while. No one approached them - no neighbors, no cars driving past, not even their parents. It was all the boys could ask for.

When the two had had their fill, they sat side by side on the curb in front of their home, observing the world around them - Bill at the houses across the street, Georgie up at the sky.

“What a duh-duh-day, huh, Juh-Georgie?” Bill said. Georgie didn’t reply. “Georgie?” Bill faced his brother, who was furiously rubbing at his eye. “ _Georgie_.”

“Hm?” Georgie looked up, and for a split second, Bill could’ve sworn there was something red in his brother’s left eye. “Sorry, Billy, my eye was itchy. What’ja say?”

Bill examined the sky, then his brother. “N-Nuh-Nothing. I’m getting c-col-cold. Let’s head in.”

Little did Bill know - and little did Georgie know himself - but a tattered piece of Pennywise’s balloon, the balloon which made the good disappear and distorted the rest, found purchase. And poor little Georgie Denbrough didn’t just have a piece lodged in his eye. Oh, no, a piece also settled in his heart, where it expanded, pushing out both the love he felt for his mother, his father, his brother, and the love he received from them in turn. This didn’t cause Georgie any pain, but it was there all the same. And as this transformation took place overnight while the boy slept, not a soul knew anything was awry until the following day.

Georgie wasn’t at breakfast, and he missed saying goodbye to his father, who left for work, and his mother, who left to run errands. The day crawled on, and Bill grew anxious, so he walked to his brother’s room. As he drew nearer, he could make out the faint sound of laughter, which amplified the closer he came to the door.

“Juh-Georgie?” Bill asked, inching the door open. Inside he saw Georgie, who was acting rather un-Georgie-like. The boy stood in the middle of his bed, fully dressed for the day while Bill still remained in pajamas, letting out spouts of laughter without any rhyme or reason.

Georgie caught sight of his older brother standing quizzical at the doorway, one hand lingering on the doorknob. “Oh, hi, Billy!” he said. He started bouncing up and down, the bed creaking with the weight shifts. “What’s wrong with your hair?”

“Muh-My hair?” Bill echoed, raising a hand to his head. “Wuh-What about it?”

Georgie cackled. “It’s so ugly!” He cackled again, dropping his whole body onto the mattress. “It’s too choppy! And too red - or not red enough?”

“That’s nuh-not very nice -”

“‘That’s nuh-not very nice,’” Georgie mocked. He fell face-first into his blankets. Though his manic laughter was muffled, it hit Bill like bullets. Not once had Georgie made fun of his stutter. Not once.

“You mmmm _iss_ -missed buh-breakfast,” Bill tried again.

“Sorry, Billy, what did you say?” Georgie asked, sitting up. His bout seemed to pass.

Relief flooded Bill. “You mi-missed -”

“I ‘mimissed’?” Georgie interjected, his amusement poorly hidden. His bout seemed to not pass, after all. “What’s ‘mimissed’ mean, Billy?” He grinned, but it wasn’t a grin Bill had ever seen on Georgie’s face. It was the mimicking of a smile - there was no meaning behind it, no pure, unadulterated joy otherwise commonly found.

Bill took what he had to accept as a calming breath. “Listen...Georgie...I don’t n-...know what’s got...ten into you, but -”

“Oh, just spit it out, Billy!” Georgie said - called - yelled. There was a gravelly anger Bill had rarely witnessed, and a fire behind the boy’s eyes. “Spit it out, or get out!”

And it was like some of Georgie’s anger passed to Bill, because all at once every nerve in his body was on fire. There was a pressure building in his chest, rising, rising, _rising_ until it came out in the most booming “Fine!” either boy had ever heard. Bill slammed the door so forcefully he swore it would fly off its hinges.

For the next hour, Bill kept to himself by reading in the living room. _Georgie’s fine,_ he thought to himself. _He’s going to come out any minute now, right as rain._ But the minutes passed, and the pages of his book turned, and Georgie was still in his room. Bill flipped to the next page and found the poem he read yesterday.

“‘Amidst the mists and kuh-coldest’ -” he began. “‘And coldest fuh-fro-fro’ - shhhh _it_.”

“Don’t swear - Dad’ll hear you.”

Georgie stood at the front door, putting on thick gloves that matched the beanie on his head and the winter coat around his torso.

“Wuh-where’re you going?” Bill asked. If his mother came home to find Georgie out of the house, she was sure to have a cow.

“Sledding,” said Georgie.

“With...with what sle-sled? Dad locked the garage.”

Georgie pulled his hat secure onto his head. “I’ll find one.”

Bill watched, frozen to the couch, as Georgie slipped outside. Some strong, sick feeling deep in his stomach told him that that might've been the last time he would ever see his brother.

Georgie had no real intention of sledding. He just wanted to get out of the ugly house away from his ugly brother and back into the beautiful snow. He never understood why his parents wouldn’t let him outside in the winter, but now he knew why: they were selfish people who wanted to keep the beauty to themselves.

He ran down the street, farther and farther away from his home. He had an urge to find the Snow Queen again, to go with her the next time she beckoned to him. If only Georgie could find her. He squinted into the gray clouds, into the fine snowfall that had recently begun.

The longer Georgie stared, the bigger the snowflakes became. Larger and larger they increased, until each one was the size of a dove or a gull or a swan. The flakes gathered together, the different birds melding, shaping into something thin and tall. The white of the birds turned silvery, and shades of red appeared here and there. Before Georgie knew, a clown clad in silver and red stood before him. Some primal instinct in Georgie sent chills throughout his body. It was probably due to the low temperature.

“Hiya, Georgie!” the clown said. “Why’re you shivering? Are ya cold?”

Georgie nodded - he had forgotten to put on his scarf and long johns before he escaped the house. The voice of his older brother rang in his mind, telling him to not talk to strangers, but looking at the clown, Georgie didn’t feel an ounce of fear.

The clown laughed - a sing-songy giggle that reminded Georgie of his own from that morning. “Well, I know a place that will warm you right up, how about that?”

Georgie nodded again, too in awe to utter a word. The clown led him away from Witcham and down Jackson, stopping at a gutter on the side of the road.

“It’s just down here, Georgie.”

“Is…” said Georgie, finally finding his voice. “Is that where the Snow Queen is? I was hoping to find her today.”

The clown’s smile seemed too massive for his face, but Georgie didn’t give that much thought. “Yes, that’s where she lives. In a huge castle underground where she will be so excited to play with you everyday, all day! Whadda you say?”

Georgie glanced from the clown to the opening at their feet. “Okay,” the boy said, and slid through the gap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall! this is my first it fic, so i hope i'm doing the story justice and i hope yall enjoy it! :)


	3. Judith's Flower Garden

Bill didn’t see his brother for the rest of the day, or the week, or the month. No one knew where he was - not that anyone had spoken to each other to find out otherwise. His parents lessened their conversation with him and between themselves. In fact, the three remaining Denbroughs were hardly ever in the same room as each other. At night, when he was sure neither of his parents could hear him, Bill wept long and bitterly, face buried in his pillow, trying his best to muffle his already hidden sobs.

Christmas passed without Georgie.

“He’s dead and gone,” his mother said.

Bill turned sixteen without Georgie.

“He’s dead and gone,” his father said.

Winter turned into spring turned into summer without Georgie.

“I don’t b-buh-believe it!” Bill said one bright morning, if only to himself. “I’ll puh-put on my suh-suh-nnnnn _ea_ kers, the ones I got for my birthday and Georgie’s nev-never seen, and I’ll go down-down to the Barrens and look for him.”

He emptied his backpack and briskly crept to Georgie’s room. It took Bill little-to-no time searching (as his parents remade Georgie’s bed soon after he disappeared and hadn’t touched it since - hadn’t entered the _room_ since) to find Georgie’s favorite stuffed animal - a turtle Georgie had named Hamster - and shoved it into his backpack. _If I can’t persuade him on my own,_ Bill thought, _then Hamster definitely will. And if that doesn’t help, at least it’ll make him less afraid._ He then tiptoed in his socks through the living room past his mother asleep behind her closed bedroom door and his father asleep in his recliner - barely skirting the piano bench - and out into the sunshine. There, on the front steps, Bill sat down to tie his relatively-new white Converse. Then went out quite alone through the town to the Barrens, not thinking or caring about how long his journey would take. Bill didn't have a surefire reason for searching the Barrens. But considering the various times they had passed the crowded greenery in the car, Georgie voicing his desire to explore the area, Bill figured it was a good enough place to look as any.

He walked through the trees, calling out his brother’s name, twigs cracking underfoot. Nothing answered, save for the whispering wind as it descended from the green treetops: “Go down to the river,” it said. “You’ll find help at the river.” And so he did. At the banks of the river was a boat, fashioned like a metallic canoe, oars nowhere to be seen. However, a paper laid on the seat, tilting this way and that whenever the wind nudged it.

_This boat floats along the Kenduskeag_ , Bill read. _And if you hop on, you’ll float, too! Just say these words: Hi-yo, Silver! Away!_.

Bill scanned up and down the river. To his right sat the town of Derry, an isolating familiarity. To his left was the rest of the world; to his left was Georgie. Though Bill debated whether to hop on or not, the decision was already in his mind: into the unknown. He climbed in the boat and gripped the edge of the boat. Closed his eyes. Took in a breath.

“Hi-yo, Silver?” he said, halfhearted. “Away?”

The boat jolted forward, nearly toppling Bill out of his seat. He and the boat drifted away from the banks of the Barrens, away from Derry.

_To Georgie. To Georgie. To Georgie_.

The deeper Bill floated into the unknown world, the more he became entranced by it. The green of the trees became more lush and abundant; the flowers were tall and bloomed in vibrant purples and yellows; once the treeline ended, Bill could make out rolling hills in the distance. But not another human being was to be seen.

That is, until many hours later, when Bill saw lines of trees to his left bearing pink blossoms but no fruit. Hidden among them was a cottage with strange red and blue windows and a thatched roof. Bill stood and called out to the house - as he didn’t know how to stop the boat - waving his arms wildly above his head. He was sure he was going to pass by without interaction when the door of the cottage opened and out came a very odd-looking woman.

The woman was curved in a way humans were not meant to be curved, with her entire self sloped to one side, like someone had tried to slice her vertically with an axe and she dodged to avoid it, but her body remained in that position. Her skin had a yellow-gray tint to it, and one of her pupilless eyes was positioned significantly higher above the other. On her head she wore a considerable sunbonnet with a broad brim decorated all over with the most lovely flowers, and in her hand she held a well-used flute.

“You poor child!” the strange woman said. “How did you get into the strong, rapid current, and drift so far out into the wide world?” She didn’t wait for a response; instead she went right out into the water and grabbed one edge of the boat, pulling it ashore, then helped Bill out of it. Though Bill was happy to be on land again, he was wary of the woman.

“Come inside,” she continued. “I’ll have the boy put on the fire and you can tell me who you are and how you got here.”

Bill hesitated, the deep-set lesson of Stranger Danger ringing around in his mind. _But she said something about a boy_ , Bill countered himself, _and that could be Georgie! Maybe he found the boat as well and he floated along the river, just as I did, and he’s been living here ever since!_ So he followed the woman into her home.

To Bill’s disappointment, the boy in question wasn’t Georgie. Rather, the boy was taller and older than Georgie - around Bill’s age - with tan-colored curls that framed his face. It was interesting to watch the boy work, how he moved so stiffly and never spoke. Just once, as the woman instructed him to make a fire, did the boy look at Bill, his brown eyes there and gone in an instant. Once he completed his task, the boy left the room hurriedly, dark eyes cast down.

“So tell me why you’re here,” the woman said, pulling Bill’s attention back to her. She sounded so earnest, and Bill was so desperate for help, that he told her everything - about Georgie, about their snow day escapade, about his brother’s disappearance. When Bill finished, he asked if she had seen Georgie, but the woman shook her head.

“I haven’t seen a boy of that description,” she said. “But he will no doubt come by here. Now, I must go check on my garden to see how the flowers are doing. You may come with me, if you like.” Bill figured he had nothing else to do but wait, so he followed the woman out another door to her back garden.

Bill had never seen such beautiful flowers - even the yellow and purple ones along the banks of the Barrens stood little-to-no chance. Shards of multi-colored glass dangled from the roof in clusters like wind chimes, painting the ground in mosaics and adding additional colors to the petals. The groupings of flowers stood in a circle around a grassy patch in which stood a table with a bowl of cherries.

_Those must be from the pink trees I saw on my way here_ , Bill thought. He took a cherry and popped it in his mouth, relishing in its sweetness. The woman placed her hat on the table and began to play a tune on her flute, a sweet melody which melted all of Bill’s troubles. He soaked in the tranquility of the garden, eating more cherries until the woman’s tune ended. He clapped for her and she bowed.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “I’ve really been longing for another boy. The other one has been so lonely, I think; he hardly says a word and he’s never around until I call for him. But never mind him. Let me introduce you to my flowers.”

Bill gathered himself and followed her, eager to see what enchantments were to be found. But unbeknownst to the older Denbrough, the garden held real enchantments, for the curved woman was learned in witchcraft - not fully wicked, but not full of good intent either. She only practiced witchcraft for her own amusement, and did so with her flute and her cherries because she wanted to keep Bill, as she wanted to do with all children who passed her way. Which was why, for good measure, while Bill was dusting himself off and wiping away the excess cherry juice, the woman forced her rose bushes underground, afraid the roses would warn him of her schemes.

The woman now showed Bill the remaining flowers - and how fragrant and lovely they were! Every imaginable flower of every season was there in full bloom; no picture book could be more variegated and more beautiful. Bill gasped at each and every one of them and played among their petals and stems until the sun went down behind the cherry trees. Then he was put to sleep in a splendid bed with heavy quilted blankets stuffed with blue violets, and there he slept and dreamed as happily as a king on his coronation day.

Stanley couldn’t remember his life before the garden.

He knew, of course, that he had a life before the garden. He knew he was raised by someone - some _people_ \- other than the lady who defied human anatomy. And he knew there was a reason he wandered - ran away? - to the cherry orchard. But either due to his length of stay or the magic surrounding the place, Stanley’s life before was shrouded in a fog.

Stanley could, however, clearly remember life _in_ the garden. He could remember the events of the first day he arrived - but only the events within the confines of the orchard. And he definitely remembered the girl who was here before.

Betty used to be the one in Stanley’s shoes (figuratively, of course). She was the one under the watchful eye of the witch. Of Judith. Betty was the one who started the fires and swept the halls and scrubbed the grime off the piles upon piles of pots and pans. That is, until she became of no use to Judith, and was discreetly disposed of.

Stanley almost didn’t notice Betty’s lack of presence. But slowly - nearly imperceptibly - he became the one who had to wash the bed sheets and clear the mice from the traps and place the newcomer’s backpack in the supply closet while the boy slept - but _never touch the garden, child, never tend the garden_. Judith, in all her misshapen glory, took charge of the flower beds outside. Stanley didn’t dismiss the sudden appearance of roses.

He hated looking at Judith. Other than the fact that he was completely under her control, her body contorted in a way which made Stanley’s stomach tighten and threaten to spill. So he kept to himself, away from her face, talking to birds that sang in the branches of the cherry trees and generally staying as distanced as possible. It wasn’t hard avoiding Judith, and this self-isolation gave Stanley plenty of time to think. Such was the case last night, as he lay wide awake on his thin mattress under a small, straw blanket, the other boy tempted with luxury in a nearby room; Stanley stared at the wooden ceiling (mildly uncomfortable as always), arriving at an unshakeable conclusion: if he didn’t try to help the boy, Stanley knew he himself would become the next Betty, and the other boy would become the next Stanley, his old life replaced by a fog while he waited for the next newcomer, and the cycle would never end.

He wasn’t an idiot - perhaps too observant for his own good, but not an idiot. And Stanley had an inkling Judith knew he knew. Yes, he tended to steer from her at all hours of the day, but her orders, too, kept him far from her and the boy the entire night, and her orders would keep him from the boy until she came back from market at noon.

So he had to do something, and he had to do it soon. The next morning, Stanley stood outside of the circle of flowers, watching the other boy smile a smile teetering towards unnatural and forced, the bright sunlight making his hair become a shiny maroon color, his destiny halfway doomed.

Stanley knew exactly what he had to do. He had to make the boy listen.

After eating a plate of food made by someone who wasn’t present at breakfast, Bill ambled around the garden again, familiarizing himself with the buds. The circle of flowers was thick and dense, yet Bill couldn’t help feeling like there was one type missing. He spotted the curved woman’s sunbonnet on the cherry table filled with tulips and gardenias and roses and lilies. But a voice in the back of his mind told him something was off-kilter. Bill scanned the circle of flowers, then glanced back at the bonnet. The garden was missing the shocking red of the roses.

“Wuh-Wuh-Where are the roses?” Bill asked the air.

“She’s hidden them,” came a voice - it was the other boy, who stood to one side of the garden, partially obstructed by pastel-pink tulips. “So you wouldn’t be warned and run away.”

Hard-and-fast realization rushed upon Bill, hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes. It was as if a fog had been cleared in his mind, revealing only pure fury. “You-You-You knew this while I’ve been wuh-wasting my time?” he said. “I’m trying to fucking ffffff _ind_ my brother, who’s been miss-missing for _months_ , and you only bring this up _now_?”

“Judith’s been keeping me busy,” the boy said, defensive, walking out from his semi-hiding space. “I’m pretty sure she didn’t want me talking to you before you properly forgot everything. But she’s just gone to market, so now's the first time I can...you know…” The boy scuffed the ground with his shoe.

“What?”

“Talk.”

“Oh…” Bill said, his anger leaving him. “Well, ha-ha-have you seen him? My brother, Georgie?”

The boy just shook his head, his curls bouncing.

“D-Do you - do you think he’s…” Bill felt like his heart was lodged in his throat.

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “But we can ask.” Bill hadn’t the faintest idea what the boy meant by that, but, nevertheless, he met the boy at an area in the dirt where no flowers grew.

“What’re you -”

“Just listen,” the boy said. “This is where the roses grow, and where they’re buried.” He crouched down to the dirt; Bill did the same. “Betty,” whispered the boy. “Do you know where Georgie is?”

“He is not dead,” came the whisper of a girl, and Bill would’ve screamed had he not wanted to hear more. “I have been underground, Stanley, where all the dead are, and now my roses are underground, too. Georgie is not with us.”

The boy, Stanley, glanced at Bill. “Does that help at all?”

_Yes, and no_ , Bill wanted to say. “Can we kee-keep asking? The o-o-other flowers?”

Stanley nodded and guided him to the orange lilies, which Stanley called Cheryl.

“Do you hear the drum?” said the lilies. “The snare drum? Rat! Tat! There are only two sounds - always Rat! Tat! Listen to the women’s funeral dirge! Listen to the priest’s cry! The innocent maiden is standing in her nightgown on the funeral pile, the flames are enveloping her dead body! But the maiden is thinking of the living being in the circle around her, of him whose eyes burn hotter than the flames, and the fire which penetrates sooner to her heart than the flames which will soon burn her body to ashes. Can the flames of the heart die in the flames of the funeral pile?”

“I don’t understand,” Bill said, looking to Stanley for answers. “What does she muh-mean?”

“It's the story of her life,” Stanley said. Both boys unsatisfied with Cheryl’s answer, Stanley walked them to the morning glories.

“Over the meadow and through the narrow mountain path,” said the morning glories, “looms the old Castle Corcoran; the ivy is climbing, leaf by leaf, up along the ancient red walls and around the balcony, on which stands a beautiful woman. She bends over the balustrade and looks down the road. No bloom is fresher than she; no apple blossom carried away from the tree by the wind could float more gracefully than she! How her magnificent silk robe rustles! She murmurs: ‘Will he not come?’”

“Are you tah-talking about Jor-Georgie?” Bill asked the flowers.

“I am only thinking of my poor, lonely mother,” answered the morning glory. On the boys went.

The snowdrop said: “Between the trees hangs a long board suspended between ropes - it’s a swing, and two lovely little girls, in frocks white as snow and long, green, silk ribbons fluttering from their hats, are sitting in it, swinging to and fro. Their brother, who is bigger than they are, stands on the swing with one arm around the rope to steady himself - for in one hand he has a little bowl and in the other he has a clay pipe; he is blowing soap bubbles! The swing travels backward and forward, and the bubbles fly about, constantly changing their color. The last bubble is still hanging at the end of the pipe, swaying to and fro in the wind. A little black dog, as charming as the bubbles, sits up on his hind legs and wants to get on the swing, but the swing never stops moving and the dog falls, barks, and becomes angry. The children tease him, the bubbles burst - a swinging board, the picture of a bursting bubble is my story.”

“That’s so sad,” said Bill. “B-Buh-But, uh, do you hap-happen to know an-anything about my bruh-brother?”

“I only know my song,” said the snowdrop.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” said Stanley. “We’ll ask Veronica.”

“There were three beautiful sisters, fair and delicate,” said Veronica, the hyacinths. “One was dressed in red, the other in blue, and the third in white. Hand in hand they danced near the silent lake in the bright moonshine. They were not elfin maidens - they were the daughters of mankind. There was a sweet fragrance in the air as the girls disappeared into the wood. Then the fragrance became stronger - three coffins, in which lay the beautiful maidens, glided away from the thicket across the lake. Shining glow worms flew about like little floating lights. Were the dancing maidens asleep, or were they dead? The fragrance of the flowers tells us they are corpses; the evening bell is tolling for the dead!”

“But the ro-roses already said -”

“Thanks, Veronica,” Stanley interrupted, leading Bill away from the flowers.

“This d-d-did-didn’t _help_ ,” Bill said. He took a step back from Stanley. “How do you nuh-know so much? Know _them_?”

“Because sooner or later, I’ll be one of them, too,” said Stanley. “That’s what Judith does; she captures stray kids who wander to her home, and she pretends to take care of them. Then she enslaves them - until a new one comes around and she kills the old one off. Everyday I listen to the birds sing and I listen to the flowers lament, knowing one day I’ll join the others underground. So when you came along, I knew my time would be soon, and I don’t want you to be next.”

“I -”

“What I’m trying to say is: you need to get out of here.”

“Buh-”

“ _Now_ ,” the boy said, and grabbed Bill’s wrist, dragging him through the house and out the front door.

Bill made it halfway to Silver before he thought to turn around and call back: “C-C-Cuh-Come with me!”

“What?” answered Stanley. “Why?”

“So you don’t die, dumbass!”

While Stanley’s arms were taut and unmoving on either side, his eyes were wild, shifting between the cottage and Bill. Even from where Bill stood, several yards away, he could tell Stanley was on the verge of saying or doing something, caught in a mental battle resulting in perpetual indecisiveness.

Bill felt his own adrenaline draining from him. “I-I-If you’d rather s-s-suh-stay,” he began, “I’ll c-come ba-back -”

“Wait,” Stanley cut him off. “Hold on.”

Bill watched Stanley scour the environment around himself, checking if the coast was clear. Seemingly satisfied he was safe, Stanley sprinted back inside the house. Just when Bill started to think this was an elaborate trick and Stanley was stalling and Judith would pop out and attack with demon-like speed and razor-sharp teeth, he caught sight of the boy rushing out of the house. Except Stanley didn’t stop - he ran right on past him, carrying Bill’s black backpack and a shining metal rod in each hand. Stanley tossed the two objects into the boat and was midway though dragging it into the water when he noticed Bill still lingering where he was two minutes ago. “Why are you just standing there?” said Stanley, short of breath. “Are we leaving, or what?”

Bill held the boat steady while Stanley climbed inside, then followed suit. “Hi-yo, Silver!” Bill said, the rush of returning adrenaline making his voice louder than he anticipated. “Away!”

Both boys watched Judith’s cottage grow tinier and tinier. As Silver rounded a bend, Bill could just discern the curved form of Judith walking down the path to her home. Oh, what a surprise awaited her.


	4. The Crow and the Prince

Silver was gently gliding along the Kenduskeag when Bill watched Stanley examine the flute he’d stolen from Judith’s cottage. Stanley must’ve sensed Bill’s eyes on him because he said, “I took it so she couldn’t use it anymore. And,” he shrugged, “I figured there could be a use for it.” Stanley put his fingers over the tabs and lifted the instrument to his mouth. However, in a rather anticlimactic fashion, the sound that came out was weak and airy.

Stanley’s brows furrowed. He blew again, but the same raspiness came out. His face reddened as he readjusted his posture and tried again, blowing harder. No dice.

“I-It’s okay if yuh-you c-c-can’t do it,” Bill said. “Not ev-everyone has the embouchure.”

“The what?” Stanley shot back, not bothering to hide his frustration.

“The...the w-wuh-way your mouth is-is set.”

Stanley looked down at his shoes, still damp from dragging the boat. “I can do it,” he grumbled, and raised the instrument. Though the same shrills sounded (“Fucking hell.”) Bill chose to ignore Stanley’s state.

They went along the river like this, Stanley griping and failing to produce a proper note, Bill focusing on everything but the boy sitting across from him. It was because of this that Bill saw a black bird fly high above them, then stop in its place, gliding above the boat, wings outstretched. As the seconds passed, Bill gained the strange feeling that the bird was watching them. Following them.

Before long, the bird seemed to make up its mind; it flew down to the boat, perching on the rim, a small pair of spectacles sitting on the bridge of its beak. It cawed. Stanley stopped his efforts, punctuating the action with an eye roll.

“Like you could do any better,” he said.

The bird cawed again. “Well, it beats whatever disastrous noise is coming from your beak,” Stanley said - answered.

 _Is he talking to the bird?_ Bill thought.

“I don’t care that you’re only a crow because you pissed off a wizard. If I was a wizard I’d do much worse.”

_Oh my God, he’s talking to the bird._

Bill, dumbstruck, was physically incapable of doing anything than watching the implausible events unfold. Stanley sat facing the crow, flute in his lap, the two engaged in a full-fledged conversation, spoken word alternating with the cawing of the bird.

“Stanley. No, you can’t call me that. Because it’s a stupid nickname. I’m fifteen - that’s hardly a man; I mean, unless you want to get technical, but that’s besides the point. Ummmm, next month, I think. Yeah, next month. What? Oh, that’s…” Stanley trailed off. He faced Bill. “Sorry, I just realized I don’t know your name.”

“Bill,” Bill said.

“Um, I’m Stanley...but I guess you already knew that...from the...flowers. And just now.”

Bill nodded and focused on the rock bed at the bottom of the river, wanting to dispel the moment of awkwardness. The crow squawked.

“Well, excuse me, _Richie_ , but the circumstances we were in were a bit unorthodox, so it’s perfectly acceptable - it is! A witch. Yes, worse than your wizard. I don’t care. Shut up. Shut up! Whatever.” Stanley picked up Judith’s flute. _CaaAW!_ He paused. “Um, maybe, actually. Bill?”

The boy in question peeled his eyes from the currents. “Hm?”

“I…I know I’m only here because we were in a life-or-death situation,” Stanley said, “but do you think Richie could come with us? Since saving your brother would be a good deed, I would think.”

“W-W-What are you tuh-talking about?”

“Richie said the wizard said the only way he can become human again is to perform a good deed,” Stanley explained. “And I figured, since we’re already trying to find Georgie, Richie could join us and fulfill that requirement.”

“Shhhh _uh_ -sure,” Bill said. “And, Stuh-Stanley?”

“Yeah?”

“It m-m-may ha-have been life-or-d-death, but you’re my fuh-friend, too. I w-wouldn’t’ve asked y-yuh-you to come otherwi-hise.”

Stanley looked like he was trying his best to conceal a smile, but his brown eyes shined bright, revealing his joy. Something fluttered in Bill’s stomach.

_Caaw!_

The moment was gone.

“Shut up, Richie,” Stanley said, diverting his attention to the bird. “Wait! Forget that! Maybe you’ve seen him - Georgie. I’m assuming he’s your younger brother, right, Bill?”

Bill nodded. _He’s probably flown across miles and miles! There could be a chance he saw Georgie._ Bill thought. “He’s shuh-short,” Bill supplied, raising a hand to show Georgie’s height, “about this tall. And he has brown hair and brown eyes,and -”

Richie squawked. “Really?” Stanley said, eyes squinted and dubious. “You’ve seen him? Because if you’re lying that’d be really shitty - locked in a building?” His questions sounded more accusatory than hopeful. “Outside a castle? With soldiers guarding the perimeter of both at all times? Real helpful, Richie.”

“A c-cuh-castle?” Bill asked. At once, his eyes lit up in realization. “A castle!”

Stanley knit his brows. “What about it?”

“That could be wuh-wuh-where the Snow Queen lives!” said Bill. “She-She’s a queen, so wouldn’t she lih-lih-hive in a castle? Silver must be tay-taking us to him!”

“The Snow Queen?” Stanley asked - this time truly curious.

“Jor-Georgie had been so sca-ha-ha-ha...frightened of her. He puh-puh-put up a front, but I s-s-s-saw his wi-hi-hindows - they were shu-hut tight. The Snow Kwuh-Queen must’ve stuh-stolen him away. Which is w-wuh weird since I may-made her up. But it’s the uh-only thing I can thi-hi-hink of.”

“Bill,” said Stanley. “What in the world are you talking about.”

So Bill recited his tale, of his and Georgie’s snow day, of Georgie acting out of sorts, of finding Silver and sailing on the river, of being welcomed by Judith, and - for Richie’s sake - how he and Stanley escaped.

_Caaw!_

“Stop it, you’d do the same,” Stanley said. Richie didn’t reply. The boy sighed. “Well, okay. We just have to wait till the mossy bank appears.”

Bill returned to watching the current.

The trio disembarked some hours later, the late afternoon sun coloring their world in honey.

“...but then the raggedy boy, he went straight to the princess,” said the black bird, “who was seated on a pearl as large as - I shit you not - as large as a fucking spinning wheel. And all the maids-of-honor with their maids and maids’ maids, and all the gentleman-in-waiting with their servants and servants’ servants, who kept page boys, were standing -”

“Listen, Richie,” Stanley interrupted, “I’m sure your story is great, but we’re kind of here now? At the mossy bank?” The crow was certainly strange - that probably came with being a boy-turned-bird - but at the core of the situation, Stanley felt no different talking to Richie than he was talking to the crows and larks and robins and other various birds that visited Judith’s property.

“What?” said Richie. He swiveled his head back to Bill, who was securing Silver in the sand, flute stowed in the pack safely secured on his back. “Oh, right! This way.” He flapped his wings and took to the sky, high enough to see above the treetops, but low enough for Bill and Stanley to follow.

The trees surrounding were thin and spindly, like an elderly woman’s fingers, green leaves sprouting only at their tips where Richie was flying. Each trunk was spaced far from the others, leaving the boys with plenty of room to peer through the forest - but there was nothing of note to observe. Just lines of trees as far as they could see. Nevertheless, Bill and Stanley kept near one another as they followed Richie’s lead.

After a few minutes of walking, the bird in question flew down. “Okie dokie, good news or bad news?”

“Bad news,” said Stanley.

“Bad news is I don’t know how we’re gonna sneak inside the building.”

“And the good news?”

“I saw the castle and building Georgie's in; they’re not that far ahead.”

“They’re close? Thank God.”

Bill, comprehending the news, made to run, but Stanley caught him by the loop atop his backpack.

“Hold up, Bill,” Stanley said. “We can’t go barging in; we’ll get caught. We need to find a way inside the building unseen. And we’re _going_ ,” he pointed a finger down with surety, “to get inside.”

Bill nodded in agreement. “We-We came all this way,” he said. “We can’t gi-gi-give up now.”

Richie brought a wing to his beak and cocked his head, as if in deep thought. “Okay. Lukewarm news: I saw some birds fly to the castle from a different direction. They’re probably chilling on the roof of one of the towers by now. I’ll go ask them if they know a way we can get inside without being seen. Hang tight.”

The boys watched Richie take off and disappear above the canopy. Bill tossed his backpack to the side and plopped down to lay where he stood, amid the dirt and drying grass. Stanley did the same, staring up at the golden sky. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “We’re almost there. Georgie’s gonna be okay.”

Bill didn’t answer. Stanley turned his head to look at him proper and was met with a scene that made him pause: a youthful boy, head resting on laced hands, pondering the shapes the clouds made - was it a dragon? a table? the hills of a land far away? - his expression placid, but not vacant. The honey-colored sun brought out the intermittent streaks of auburn strewn about his otherwise dark hair.

The boy audibly exhaled and closed his eyes, but didn’t speak.

Stanley, lacking any more words of consolation - or any words at all - focused on the blades of grass between them, leaving Bill to his own thoughts. The two lay in silence, awaiting Richie’s return.

“Okay, Stan,” said the crow, “good news or -”

“Bad news,” said Stanley, rising to a sitting position.

“Actually, this setup would work better if you asked me for good news first -”

“Okay, what the hell is the good news, then, Richie?”

Bill propped himself up on his elbows as the bird continued: “Okay, so I just wanna preface with the fact that the castle birds are regulars. Like, I didn’t even know birds _could_ be regulars - but anyway. They told me the guards change their patrol or whatever every so often so there’s gonna be like a two-minute span when they can’t see a back window.”

“And you’re suggesting we sneak inside in the window in that time frame,” Stan finished.

“Exactly!” said Richie. “I call it: Operation Window in The Window. Get it? Because it’s a window, and we’re going through it in a window of time -”

“Did you already say the bad news?” Bill asked.

“Oh, well the bad news is it’s happening in, like, less than ten minutes so-”

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” Stan shouted, pulling himself and a discombobulated Bill to their feet. “Richie, where’s the castle?”

Bill wished he knew why they were running so hard. He had his guesses, yes, but the language barrier (was it still a language barrier if it was with an animal?) he had with Richie prevented him from knowing exactly what was going on. Stanley would probably tell him, but… there wasn’t really a good time to bring it up. Especially not now, as the two of them and Richie raced through the rows of trees, his backpack bouncing up and down with every stride.

At one point, Richie veered quickly to the side, and Bill nearly twisted his ankle trying to catch up. Deeper and deeper the three ventured into the forest, away from the dirt path they had been previously travelling by. Gradually the trees thinned, and _voila_ , Bill could make out the outline of a small building near where the forest stopped. He would’ve proceeded full speed ahead, had Stanley not, yet again, caught him by the backpack loop.

“We need to time it perfectly,” Stanley said, now at a whisper, “or we’ll definitely get caught.” The trio approached the edge of trees, hiding behind the ones at the front. “Okay, there’s the window. Bill, you’ll go first -”

“Why me?” Bill whispered back. Stanley stared at him like the reasoning was obvious. “What?”

“Sometimes I regret associating myself with you.”

“We’ve known each other for a day!”

“And yet. Richie,” Stanley eyed the bird perched on a branch above him, “how much longer - shit!”

Heavy, rhythmic footfalls approached them, like that of military. Bill tried to squeeze his body into his center, back to the trunk, not daring to breathe. The steps stopped. Bill made himself impossibly smaller, the rod of the flute digging into his spine. A sniff was heard. A cough. Then the footsteps resumed, moving farther and farther to the right.

Then Bill heard the softest _caw_ in the world.

“Bill!” It was Stanley, whisper-shouting from behind his own tree. “That’s your cue!”

Bill jumped into action. He raced the short distance across the green lawn, hurdled over the strange fence that seemed to curve around the building, and straight to the aforementioned window, pushing and pulling it up with all his might. It took a few seconds longer than desired, but once Bill was certain there’d be enough space for him to fit through, he did just that, proceeding to fall ungracefully onto his side.

He hastily gathered himself, taking in the interior. There wasn’t much to observe, admittedly; just a desk with a small stack of books, a wardrobe at the far wall (if a circular room could have distinct walls), a chest of drawers beside it, and a bed. A bed with a quilt nearly covering the body of whoever was currently sleeping in it.

Bill couldn’t wait any longer. He called out his brother’s name and pulled the quilt down.

The boy in the bed groaned, rising to a sitting position. “Fine, I’m up, I’m up.” He rubbed his eyes and blinked them open. “Who are you?” 

Bill, at a severe loss for words, couldn’t do anything but stare as Stanley tumbled through the window.

“Agh! Why did that hurt so much?” A pause. “Are you Georgie? Please tell me you’re Georgie.”

But it wasn’t. He was young, but not Georgie-young - more Bill’s-age young. And though his eyes matched the brown of Georgie, his hair was black as obsidian. In the light of the setting sun, Bill gazed at a boy who was distinctly _not_ Georgie Denbrough.

It wasn’t the worst day Eddie Kaspbrak had ever had. Then again, there wasn’t ever much to feel angry about. He woke every morning with the sunrise, was brought his meals on silver platters left just inside his door, and was visited at night by his mother, who brought his medications.

When he was younger, he’d asked his mother what the medications were for. “They’re for your health, Eddie-bear,” she answered. “You’re so fragile, so prone to illness and allergies. I need to keep you safe.” That was why he lived outside the castle, where no one could harm him. That was also why he’d never interacted with anyone besides his mother, much less anyone his own age.

Until now.

“I’m Eddie,” said Eddie. “Who’s Georgie?”

“His brother,” said the boy with curly hair, closing the window he - and presumably the other boy - had come through.

“How did you find me?”

“I mean, no offense, but we weren’t looking for you.”

“But you still found me?”

“Yeah ‘cause Richie said he saw someone who looked like his brother,” he gestured to the other boy. “But now it’s apparent that he needs a new set of bird prescriptions because you do _not_ look ten years old.”

_Caaw!_

The boy turned to Eddie’s chest of drawers, where a crow was perched. “Now you’re just being mean.”

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, but was cut short by the other boy finally speaking. “Suh…so...duh-do you...is Georgie n-not here?”

Eddie shook his head. “No, sorry.” Georgie’s brother looked to the ceiling like Eddie did when he was fighting tears. Then he dropped face-first onto Eddie’s bed, burying his face in the blanket.

“Bill?” said the other boy, nearing the one in question. When Bill didn’t reply, he turned again to Eddie’s chest of drawers. “Now you’ve done it.”

_CaAW!_

“Look at him! You got his hopes up!” He moved to sit at the end of the bed and gingerly unhooked Bill’s arms from his pack, placing the bag on the ground. Richie flew and landed in the space between Bill’s shoulder blades, folding his legs and settling there. The bird glanced at the curly-haired boy.

The boy raised a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.” Then, to Eddie, “I’m Stanley, by the way, don’t know if I’ve said that yet. Sorry we barged into your room; I swear it was for a good reason.”

Eddie gave a tiny smile. “It’s fine, I get it.” In reality, though he understood the trio’s intentions, he wished he really understood _them_ \- their motive, their loyalty to each other, their loyalty to Bill’s cause. He wanted to be a part of something like that, some worldly adventure that would take him into the home of strangers and let him talk to other animals.

“Anyway, um,” Stanley said, inspecting his own folded hands, “you wouldn’t happen to have any food, would you? We haven’t eaten since morning.”

Luckily, Eddie hadn’t eaten all of his dinner, and whoever brought and retrieved the platter had yet to come. They all sat in a circle on the floor, Stanley managing to persuade Bill from his elegant position, a single candle illuminating the room in the fading twilight. Though the remaining slices of grilled cheese had gone cold and the only grapes left were the squishy ones, the two boys and the bird ate them fervently, not leaving one morsel untouched.

“C-Can I ask you suh-sommm-thing?” Bill inquired. Eddie shrugged. “Wuh-Why don’t you live ih-in the castle? Why’re you in a...” he scanned the room, “guh-gazebo?”

“My mom wants to keep me safe,” said Eddie.

“I-is she like a d-doc-duh-duh-d...nurse, or suh-homething?” Bill asked.

“No, she’s the queen.”

Richie squawked at the same time the others exclaimed, “The _queen_?”

Eddie shrugged again. “My dad died when I was young, and my mom’s worried that I have the same condition as him, so she keeps me outside the castle so I don’t contract the same disease.”

“What disease?” said Bill. Then, realizing what he asked, “I-If you d-doh-don’t muh-mind me asking.”

“Susceptibility.” The two boys squinted their eyes at him - Eddie swore Richie did too. “I have to take all these medications for them - why are you looking at me like that?”

Bill and Stanley locked eyes, communicating something unsaid. Richie hopped closer to him, the light of the candle gleaming off his miniature lenses. Eddie pet the top of his head. Richie cawed. Desperately wanting to clear the awkwardness of the air, Eddie cleared his throat, one hand still stroking Richie’s feathers. “So how long have you guys known each other?”

 _Caaw!_ The boys broke away from their silent conversation. Stanley spoke, “Yeah, like, a day.”

“What?” Eddie shouted.

“Luh-less than that, ih-if we’re cou-hounting when R-Rih-Richie joined,” Bill supplemented. At Eddie’s bewildered expression, he continued, “Yuh-Yesterday I sto-hopped at this creepy lady’s h-house and Stan-Stanley was there as, luh-like, her serv-servant, or whatev-vuh-ver, and then w-we escaped because stay-haying there is, like, cer-hertain d-duh-death, so we sail-sailed down the ri-ri-hiver on Silver - the b-b-boat I fow-hound when I wuh-was loo-hooking for Georgie in the Barrens - a-a-and Ri-Richie fuh-found us and joh-hoined us because say-say-having hih-him would t-tur-hurn him buh-back into a per-herson - he guh-got tur-turned into a buh-bird by a piss-pissed off wizzzz- _wi_ zard - and now we’re he-here.”

Eddie allowed his brain to process the information before confidently and conclusively saying, “I have so many questions.”

“We’ll tell you the long story later,” said Stanley.

“There’s a _long_ versio-” the clacking of footsteps cut him off. Distinct clacking. The kind that clacked like his mother’s heels clacked. “Oh, shit. You guys need to hide.”

“Why?” said Bill.

“Where?” said Stanley.

“My mom’s about to come in, and she will _not_ be happy if she finds two strangers and a bird in my room. Hide in the wardrobe.” Eddie grabbed the boys and tugged them into the wardrobe and all but slammed it closed. He didn’t see Richie, but he hoped the bird was smart enough to hide himself. He heard her keys fiddle in the lock and jumped into his bed, tempering his inhales and exhales to what could be passed as the normal rate of breathing (God, he needed his inhaler), and leaned back against his pillows.

All he had to do was act like he wasn’t storing two people in his wardrobe. How hard could that be?

Stan wished the wardrobe was bigger. For being a prince, Eddie was certainly not a spendthrift. But the wardrobe did its job - the job being successfully concealing two intruders - even if his side was pressed flush against Bill’s in the pitch black and there lacked any room to diminish the contact.

When Bill spoke, quieter than a mouse, Stan could feel the boy’s breath brush against his ear. “Do you think -”

“Shh!” Stan said. He turned his head to where Bill’s face probably was. Now he could feel Bill’s breath on his lips. Stan’s face grew warm, and he sent a silent thank you to Eddie for having a wardrobe that was so dark. “I can hear someone talking.

Indeed, someone was speaking, but it wasn’t the voice of Eddie, whose voice they had quickly become familiar with. No, whoever was speaking had a voice that was female and sing-songy, as though addressing a small child.

“Eddie-bear,” said the voice of who could only be Eddie’s mother. “I’ve come with your pills.”

“Oh, hi, Mommy,” replied the voice of Eddie. “I was just taking a nap.”

“Right before bedtime? You know that will disturb your sleep cycle, which will ruin the next day - not to mention your digestive and immune system, or your heart and brain for that matter.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“But I think the best thing for you to do is head straight to bed after I leave - best to get too much sleep than not enough.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Although too much sleep could lead to diabetes or stroke -”

“Stroke?” Eddie’s voice sounded strained.

“Yes, but I think a one-time impediment won’t do much harm. But you must promise me not to do it again.”

“I promise,” said Eddie.

“Good, now take your medicine.” The rattling of pills echoed throughout the room, matching the tempo of Stan’s beating heart.

_Just leave. Just leave. C’mon, leave!_

Stan felt Bill shift his weight, the floorboards of the wardrobe letting out a creak. It sounded like a death sentence.

“Why did you do that?” Stan whisper-shouted.

“My fuh-foot was falling asleep!” Bill whisper-shouted back. “Wuh-What was I s-suh-pposed to do?”

“Eddie?” came the woman’s voice. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Stan could hear panic rising in the boy’s voice.

“There was a noise. It came from your wardrobe.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

But Eddie’s quasi-protesting did nothing to deter the clacking of his mother’s heels. Stan slid backward inch by inch, Bill mirroring his movements, until their own heels met the posterior wall of the wardrobe. And still the clacking approached. With one hand Stan covered his mouth in a bad attempt to dampen his breathing, nearing panic.

They were going to be caught, he thought. They were going to be caught and he’d be sent back to the garden, to Judith, destined to be buried under, what - sunflowers? azaleas? forget-me-nots? Or maybe they’d get caught (they were going to be caught!) and Eddie’s mom - the queen of whatever kingdom they’d stumbled into - would throw them in the cold, dank, clammy dungeon beneath her palace where they’d either wait a hundred years to die or wait three days and have their neck snapped and then maybe Stanley wouldn’t be buried under flowers but under dirt in an unmarked grave or burned upon a pyre and so would Bill. Bill! Bill would never find his brother and would never return home and -

and Bill took hold of his other hand, the one that had been shaking, trembling without Stan realizing it. Bill squeezed it, and Stanley squeezed right back, sending all his harrowing thoughts there to die between the compression of their palms. Stan closed his eyes, waiting for the light of the candle to flicker on the other side of his eyelids.

“Mommy?” said Eddie.

The clacking stopped. “What is it, Eddie-bear?”

“Why...why doesn’t anyone else come by my room?”

“The cook comes by every day to deliver your food,” said his mother.

“No,” Eddie pressed. “I mean, why don’t I ever see anyone _my_ age? Why won’t you let me have friends?”

“Oh, well, dear…” the woman’s voice and clacking trailed away. Stanley lessened his hold on Bill’s hand, but didn’t let go. Neither did Bill. “Other people - other kids, like you - they don’t know what’s best for you. They don’t know what’ll hurt you. I do. So I have to take care of you, and that means not letting anyone else come in. People may have good intentions, but all they’ll do in the end is hurt you. That’s what aided in your father’s passing. You don’t want to end up like your father do you? He was so susceptible, just like you.”

“Okay,” said Eddie. “I understand.”

“All right. Good night, Eddie-bear.”

“Good night, Mommy.”

“You took all your medicine? Got your new inhaler? I just had it refilled.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

The door closed, the lock secured. Stan counted to five, then allowed himself to let go of Bill and slip to the floor, curling in on himself, and let out the world’s loudest sigh.

The wardrobe doors flew open. There, silhouetted in all his glory, stood Prince Eddie, Richie perched on his shoulder. “Do you guys want to have a sleepover?”

Eddie wanted them to sleep in his bed while he took the floor, but Bill and Stanley insisted that he sleep in his own bed - he’d done enough as it is, hiding them and letting them rest overnight. So, reluctantly, Eddie climbed into his bed, Richie resting on a pillow beside him, and Bill and Stanley took to their pallets on the floor.

Bill noticed, as he and Stanley settled under their blankets, that they lay closer together than they did in the forest. Not as close as they were in the wardrobe - he didn’t think they _could_ get any closer than that - but somewhere in between. He flexed the hand that had held Stanley’s. It still ached from how harshly Stanley clasped it.

A rustling came from beside him, Stanley tossing back and forth between his covers. “Stanley?” Bill spoke softly so as to not wake Eddie and Richie. “You okay?”

There was a moment of silence before the other boy answered. “I’m not used to this much...comfort when I sleep. Judith practically had me sleeping on the ground.”

“Oh,” Bill said. “Sorry?”

“It’s not your fault,” Stanley replied. “It’ll just take some getting used to. It’s not like I’d ever want to go back to that.” A pause. “Since leaving I’ve been remembering things. About my old life. Before the garden.”

“Luh...Like what?”

“I remember…” Bill could hear the smile in his voice, “my bar mitzvah. I remember friends and family being there. I remember looking forward to growing up.” He gave a little huff of laughter. “Look where that got me.”

“It cuh-hould be wuh-worse.”

The smile was back in his sound. “Yeah. Could be.” Crickets chirped in the grass outside. The new moon cast no light on the world. “We’ll keep looking for Georgie tomorrow, Bill. Don’t give up.”

“I’m nuh-not going to,” Bill assured him. “But I’m glad you’ll be wih-hith me, anyway.”

Bill dreamed of a boat on a river and a hand perfectly fitting into his.

The next morning, they sat in their circle collectively feasting on Eddie’s breakfast.

“So, Stanny,” said Richie, “how was your cuddle session with Bill?”

“Shut up,” Stan hissed. Richie delighted in the way Stan’s face turned red as the tomatoes he was eating. “How was yours with Eddie?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How long have you been able to talk to birds?” Eddie piped up.

The entire room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“That’s very funny, Eddie,” Stan said.

Eddie looked to Bill at his left and then Richie at his right. “I - I’m not joking. I’m serious.”

“Richie’s been speaking English this entire time.”

“No he hasn’t. He’s been cawing.”

“What? No - tell him, Bill.” Bill was suddenly inspecting the wall like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Richie?”

Richie shrugged. “It’s been sounding like English to me this whole time, too.”

“So you guys never heard…” Stanley’s face, now void of color, went from confused to shocked and back to confused. For some reason he examined his hands. “Can I talk to birds?”

Bill stood and dusted his hands off. “Wuh-Well, I think ih-hit’s time for us to go.”

Stanley stood as well. “Now, wait a second, Bill. You can’t just -”

Richie flew to Stan’s shoulder. “Yeah, ‘wait a second’. What about Eddie?”

“Oh, he’s coming with us,” Stan answered, cringing as soon as he did, fully aware of how and why he was the only one to respond. Nonetheless, he turned to Eddie. “Aren’t you?”

Eddie, clearly not expecting this, said, “I was never asked.”

“It w-wuh-was implied,” Bill said, putting on his backpack. To Stan and Richie, he verified, “Wuh-husn’t it im-implied?”

“Wha - I can’t leave,” Eddie protested. “I - I have a kingdom to run!”

“Excuse me for overstepping,” said Stan, “but, Eddie, your mom may not have magic, but believe me when I say I know a witch when I see one.”

“Oh, come on, she’s not that bad.”

“Oh, come on, Eds,” said Richie, “there’s no way in hell she’s ever gonna let you out of this place.” Stanley, belatedly, translated.

Eddie made a face. “Ew, Richie, don’t call me that.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Bill said, still searching through the back window, “Sta-hanley’s right. “And,” he looked over his shoulder, “‘Suh-Suh-Susceptibility’ isn’t a disease.”

“But...why would she lie?”

“Did no one hear what I said?” Richie asked.

“The guh-guard’s cuh-coming,” Bill called. “Ed-Eddie are you in?”

Eddie didn’t meet any of their eyes. Bill would later compare it to how Stanley looked before they escaped Judith’s cottage. “Okay, fine! Let me just grab something.”

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Stanley argued.

“You two go ahead,” Richie said. “I’ll stay. We’ll meet you at Silver.”

“Okay,” said Stan. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

While Eddie raced around his room, packing a hand-sized (human hand-sized) pouch, Bill opened the window and clumsily climbed through, Stan reminding Richie, “At Silver,” before doing the same.

Eddie stood in front of the window. “All right, I’m ready.”

The door flew open. In stepped Queen Eddie’s Mom.

Last night, from where Richie watched the interaction from the rafters, Eddie’s mother didn’t seem menacing - the opposite, in fact. But now, where Richie was on the same level, Richie was hit with a tremor of fear. The woman was large and immovable, her eyes ablaze in fury.

“Just _what_ do you think you’re doing?” she all but shrieked.

“I…” Eddie whimpered. _Whimpered._

“Go on, Eds,” Richie encouraged.

“Is that a _bird_?” Eddie’s mother marched toward the window. “Eddie, do you have _any_ idea how many diseases birds carry? You could get avian pox! Or Lyme disease! Or Aspergillosis! Or-”

“Enough!” Eddie stepped between his mother and where Richie was perched on the windowsill. “Could I really, Mom? Because it feels like you’re lying, keeping me away from everyone, preventing me from making friends. Do I even need my medications?”

Eddie’s mother stood there, mouth gaping open like a fish.

“I don’t, do I?” Eddie pressed. He took out a pill bottle from his pouch and slammed it downward. “It’s all bullshit! Isn’t it?”

“Eddie,” his mother muttered, and somehow it was more frightening than her roaring from before. “You have no idea what you’re doing. You don’t know anything about the world outside.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “better late than never, huh? No thanks to you.”

Richie took to the air while Eddie clambered through the opening, the ringing sound of the queen’s falling on ears that refused to listen.

“You there! Stop!” demanded a deep, masculine voice.

“It’s a guard!” Richie called. “Follow me!” Had Richie looked behind him, he wouldn’t’ve noticed Eddie petrified like a deer in headlights, watching the soldier race toward him.

“Eddie!” Richie called. Then mustering his best impression of what he thought a crow might sound like, he released the largest _CAAW!_ the world had probably ever heard. The sonority broke Eddie’s state, and he scanned the sky for the bird who had caused it. “This way!” Richie shouted, and took off, knowing this time Eddie would follow.

He led Eddie through the trees, backward-tracing the path he, Bill, and Stan had taken. And - there! He could see the river! Except, he started to sink lower in the air. The wind passed through his wings. He wobbled in the air. His tail was shrinking and his legs were elongating. It wasn’t painful, but his body was becoming larger and heavier and his feathers weren’t black anymore, but a peachy tone. He looked down and saw the treetops growing closer and closer with more rapidity.

Richie tried to flap his wings, but they were gone. He fell, screaming, to the forest floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon characterizations? don't know her
> 
> also! i have made the executive decision to make this story gay, so. there we go! hopefully i can do it right. we'll see lol


End file.
